


Draw

by Tokakokan



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Canon Related, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Introspection, Light Angst, Slow Burn, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokakokan/pseuds/Tokakokan
Summary: For the first time in her life, Tifa wishes she isn’t so good at fighting.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 17
Kudos: 127





	Draw

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the early chapters of FFVII Remake.
> 
> I started this in the summer, and since then this work has gone through many iterations, and although it's not perfect I'm happy with it! Biggest thank you to [OurLadyMuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourladymuffin) for being a wonderful friend, beta and writer.  
>   
> I'd also like to thank [Mayelisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayelisa/pseuds/mayelisa) and [04JETTA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/04JETTA/pseuds/04JETTA) for being kind enough to take a look through it as well.  
> 

Three weeks.

It’s been three weeks since they started this—whatever _this_ is—and neither of them have been able to land a proper hit on each other.

For the first time in her life, Tifa wishes she isn’t so good at fighting.

"Too slow!"

She regrets the words as soon as they fly out her mouth. Her hand stings, steel vibrating hard under her knuckles and chattering her teeth. 

_Damn it. He's getting good at this._

She shakes her hand out, knowing it’ll bruise tomorrow. She figures she deserves that.

Half of his face is obscured by his sword, but she can make out the edges of a satisfied smirk, and it annoys her almost as much as the coil in her stomach upon seeing it.

He lunges for her again, and she almost doesn't move.

She thinks about kicking that big, ridiculous sword of his out of the way and letting his hands find her skin instead.

Except old habits die hard, and her body reacts more sensibly than her brain. She vaults over him, but her hand consequently presses on his shoulder for leverage, and she feels the heat of him through his shirt.

Her hand burns where she touched him. 

She squints into the afternoon sun, trying to put reason to her reaction. She tells herself it's the heat. It's just a hot day.

Her fingers twitch.

A _very_ hot day.

There's room between them now, and she struggles to compose herself. Dampness prickles at the back of her neck and she swipes at it hastily. She looks at it, grimaces, and wipes her hand on her shirt. Not like it makes much difference anyway, she wasn't sure there was a part of her that wasn't sweaty.

Her chest heaves as her heart stutters in her chest. _It's just practice, isn't it?_

It's nothing Tifa hasn't done before. Fighting is her element, as natural to her as breathing— so why was she having such a hard time focusing?

She watches him, tells herself she's studying his movements, but her gaze lingers too long for it to be objective. 

Guilt claws at the back of her throat, and she wonders if it's wrong to look. It's been so many years; she never thought she'd see him again. Now he's here, he remembers her, and he's grown handsome, so handsome, or beautiful?—maybe both. 

It shouldn't matter to her. She reminds herself that they’re friends, and she’s just looking out for him, as a friend would. But then her eyes lock with his, the air charged with something thick and tangible, and they’re so close she can feel his breath shivering her skin.

In the brief seconds they come together she finds herself getting greedier, trying to stretch time she doesn’t have, and it costs her a bruised hand and ego just to see him look at her that way up close. The thought elicits a thrill through her body.

 _Worth it_.

He pulls his collar away from him, in what she guesses is an attempt to escape the heat. She only means to look for a second, but her eyes snag on a flash of his collar, then they trail down from his neck to the sinewy lines of his arms, and she entertains the idea of what they might feel like around her. 

Her brain short circuits. 

The sound of his breath disrupts her composure further. She hopes they’re far away enough from each other that he can’t see the colour on her cheeks, and if he could...well, mistaking her flush for exertion would work in her favour.

She shakes her head. Despite the heat hazing her senses, she tries to channel the current buzzing through her body to temper it.

Blond hair. Bright eyes. These are things she should be used to by now. But with each day, she learns something new about him. Something changes, and the gaps his absence left behind slowly start to come together. 

It only makes her more confused. 

* * *

She makes a habit of closing the bar early on the last week of each month.

Tifa can hear Barret’s voice reminding her she could ‘close it for a whole damn weekend’ if she wants, but an hour is enough for her. It’s hard work, but it quiets the noise in her head and makes her feel useful. 

She takes her time with it, the rag lingering over a spill from an earlier tussle that had gotten out of hand. 

_Three._

It’s late, and her ears are finely tuned to the noise outside. There’s distant chatter, followed by muffled peals of laughter that she could recognize even through the brick walls.

She thinks back to the men, their gaudy leather outfits and weapons flashing brazenly on their hips. She hazards a guess that they weren’t from this sector; her regulars know well enough what happens when you cause trouble here.

_Two._

She files that information away for later.

The voices are closer now. She feels the wood creak under the weight of distinct, heavy footsteps, and she sets the rag aside and moves toward the counter, despite the protests of her aching feet. 

_One._

One cue, there's the click of the back door unlatching, groaning as it swings open. 

Tifa makes a point of sighing emphatically enough that they can hear her. 

“You know you’re supposed to use that key for emergencies only.” There are three clean pint glasses on the table.

“It _is_ an emergency!” Wedge pats his stomach. “There’s no food at home.”

She raises her brows, but doesn’t mention that it seems to be a recurring ‘emergency.’

Jessie comes in next, bouncing with more energy than warranted for a Sunday night. Biggs trails not far behind, throwing her a lazy two-fingered salute.

Tifa blinks as Jessie leans over the counter past her, close enough that her hair brushes against her cheek.

She sets down one more glass, next to the others.

“Found a stray hanging outside the bar, so we brought him in for ya.” Biggs jerks his thumb behind him. “He looks a little hungry. Maybe we should feed him, too?”

She frowns, looking past Jessie’s shoulder—expecting to see whatever cat of the week Wedge had taken pity on.

She gets a chocobo instead.

“Bro! You came!” Wedge clumsily throws his arm around him, but the taller man quickly steps out of the way.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” 

“Aw bro, why you gotta be like that?”

She’s pleased, if not confused by the familiarity of their exchange, and the fact that he came with them. _Bro, huh?_ Well, at least they were getting along.

There’s a tickle in her stomach, and she pushes aside the reason why.

His eyes catch hers, briefly. They don’t offer an explanation for his presence, and she doesn’t ask for one. She knows well enough by the crease in his brow that whatever questions she asks will most likely be avoided.

Instead she smiles, rocking against the counter. If he isn’t going to talk, she can at least try to get him to enjoy himself for a few hours. 

“So, what can I get you four?”

A loud rumble answers for her as Wedge grins sheepishly, looking down at his stomach. 

“Dinner would be great.”

* * *

As usual, the evening gets out of hand. Dinner is followed by a drink, then two, and by the time she remembers she’s supposed to cut Jessie off after three _no matter what_ , it’s too late.

“Come on, Tifa will totally win,” Jessie slurs over her fourth—fifth? She’s lost count—glass of the evening. She reluctantly crosses Jessie’s name off the calendar for tomorrow and fills it with her own—it’s unlikely she’ll even leave her bed tomorrow morning.

“I'm betting on those SOLDIER reflexes.” Wedge’s eyebrows raise apologetically. “No offense, Tifa.”

She sighs. It was wishful thinking, hoping that the night would end peacefully. She risks a glance at the only other sober person in the bar.

Those ‘reflexes’ have him parked in the opposite corner, his arms crossed and expression still sour. He really isn’t a people person; at least some things stay consistent. 

Jessie, not to be ignored, waves around her half-full glass emphatically. “So, when are you guys gonna throw down? Me and Wedge already placed bets.” 

Tifa gently pries it out of her hands. “You’re cut off for tonight.” 

“That’s not an answer!”

She gives her a non-committal noise before walking to the sink, thankful to have something to take her a little farther away from accusatory eyes. With Jessie, there’s no stopping once she’s started.

“You know Barret is gonna be pissed if he finds out. Funds are tight as is.”

Tifa turns the tap down, washing the dishes a little quieter. She wasn’t expecting Biggs to speak up.

Barret is quick to fly off the handle for many things. She recalls his latest outburst, in no small part due to Wedge cursing in front of Marlene by mistake. The young girl went on to gleefully repeat said words for the next two weeks, in front of everyone who would listen, much to her father’s chagrin.

Jessie’s voice derails her thoughts. “You’re such a killjoy! Not everything is about money, you know.” Whatever reproach in her voice is ruined by her chair nearly teetering off the floor. 

Tifa is over the counter in an instant, but before the stool can fall, Biggs’ hand shoots out and catches the leg, steadying it. “Quick feet there, Teef.” He smiles slyly. “Maybe Wedge picked the wrong guy.”

She opens her mouth to tell him it didn’t matter who Wedge picked, that she or Cloud never agreed to do anything, but his attention is already back to Jessie. 

“So? What’s the wager?”

Tifa prays she keeps her mouth shut. Jessie’s expression is surly, and she lets the silence stretch out punishingly. She waits until she’s satisfied enough at Biggs’ exasperation before wiggling her eyebrows and leaning in. 

“Loser takes the other’s shift at the watch for a whole _month_ ,” she whispers conspiratorially. 

It’s like a switch is flipped, and Tifa swears she can see his face light up in slow motion. She sighs, realizing the last backup she had in reasoning with the other two has now joined the dark side. 

“Sorry Tifa, I think she just made me an offer I can’t refuse.” Biggs had the decency to at least look over at her with an apologetic smile, but it withered under her glare.

If Cloud is listening to any of their conversation, he makes no indication that he’s heard.

Shaking her head, she crosses the counter to the other side of the bar and places a whiskey glass across him.

“Here. You liked this one last time, right?” 

He picks up the glass slowly, turning it in his hands, watching the yellow liquid tilt from side to side. 

Cloud gives her the faintest of smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Thanks.”

She studies his face. Even though it’s been a week since he showed up, she’s still not used to seeing him grown-up. When she thinks of him, she remembers an awkward, gangly-limbed boy with an unruly ponytail, not this broad shouldered man with a sharp jawline and an even sharper sword. 

The huge piece of steel glints off his back, threatening and unwieldy. There is a slight twinge in her chest when she looks at it, like she swears she’s seen it before.

“Uh...something on my face?”

Oh god. Was she staring? She was staring. _Shit_.

“J-just thought you might want something to take the edge off. You know, from these three.” Her words stumble over themselves.

In the background, Wedge protests, but she pointedly ignores him.

He looks over her like he doesn’t buy her excuse. Under the scrutiny of his gaze, she briefly wonders if his position as a SOLDIER involved interrogation; it takes all she has to hold it.

He breaks the silence first.

“Does...this happen often?” He punctuates his question with a jerk of his head, in the direction of raucous laughter.

“About once a month,” she says, thankful for the change in topic.

He exhales softly in a way that sounds something close to a laugh.

“And do they usually make stupid bets?”

So he _had_ heard them. 

She laughs, trying to sound less nervous than she feels. “Not usually. I think having a new face gets them fired up.”

“What do I have to do with it?”

She bites her lip. “They...we don’t really get a chance to hang out with other people.”

It’s a half truth. There’s too much at stake to risk close relationships outside of Avalanche, too many secrets to keep, so she settles for friendly acquaintances. Tifa loathes to think of herself and her friends as dangerous people, but there’s only so close she can get before someone is put at risk. 

She looks back at them, smiling and laughing like a group of old friends, naive, innocent. Happy.

These three, four including Barret, have been the only confidants she’s had for years.

Her drink is cold around her hands, and she studies the amber liquid, trapped under the frothy layer on top. It’s a temporary feeling—all of them are—and while sometimes knowing brings her comfort, today, the taste sits bitterly on her tongue. 

She doesn’t want this moment—this easy happiness—to be temporary. She wants them as friends, _real_ friends, not this ragtag bunch of vigilantes bound together by resentment, that festers when the haze of alcohol wears off and never truly goes away. 

She pushes the glass away from her, lost enough in thought that blue eyes go unnoticed.

Tifa doesn’t dare say it out loud, but they’re the closest thing she has to a family now.

* * *

The night air is cool on her skin and refreshing in her lungs as she successfully herds the other three out the back door. She checks the locks, and then once more out of habit before stuffing the keys in her pocket.

They paint a funny picture; Jessie’s arms are practically draped over Wedge and Biggs as she struggles to hold herself upright. 

“I don’t need you two!” She makes a feeble attempt to struggle out of their grasp. “Why don’t you let ‘military man’ over here walk me home? I’d be _much_ safer.” 

She lurches forward, and Cloud instinctively steps back when she sways dangerously close to his face.

“Man, she really hasn’t sobered up at all, has she?” Wedge dodges her flailing hands as he tries to keep his grip. 

“Uh.” Briefly, Cloud’s eyes seek Tifa’s, as if looking for...help? She blinks.

Ah. She clears her throat.

She tries to soften the blow as gently as possible. “Cloud’s in the other direction, so I think it’s better that the guys take you home.” 

“No fair Tifa, trying to keep him to yourself!” 

_Goddamn it Jessie_. She wills for the heat crawling up her face to go away.

Biggs sighs. “Give it a rest Jessie, let’s go!” 

They all but drag her away, kicking and screaming. Jessie has always had a flair for the dramatic, and though sometimes it's at her expense, it lightens something in Tifa’s heart to see her look the most relaxed she has in months.

They’re almost out of sight when Wedge turns to look over his shoulder, his hand above his head in a thumbs up. 

“Tifa! You’re an awesome cook! Maybe not as good as Jessie’s mom but-”

He yelps, from what she guesses is a kick from Biggs. The last thing she sees is a wave in her direction before they melt into the night.

Without their presence, the atmosphere shifts. There’s a quietness that settles, not just over her, but the entire slum. It’s a welcome change from the earlier rowdiness, but it also makes her acutely aware of the person behind her.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself before she turns. He’s leaning against the railing, obscured in darkness save for the light glinting off his sword. The night air she found refreshing moments ago raises goosebumps on her arms.

“Shall we?” she offers tentatively, staring into his shadow. 

He only nods, his hair a flash of silver in the night.

For a while, the silence can be described as companionable, accompanied only by the sounds of softly clinking chains and shoes scraping across gravel. Their footsteps are stuttered though, out of touch with each other. His wide strides are indication enough that he’s eager to get home.

Home. She remembers the look on Marle’s face when she’d asked about a spare room. She barely entertained the idea that she’d even _see_ Cloud again, let alone end up as neighbours a second time.

She sneaks a sidelong glance at him. The moonlight hollows out his face, making his features look severe, stern even. Save for his wild hair, there is little that reminds her of her childhood friend. But the biggest difference...

His eyes.

They look haunted.

They glow unsettlingly in the darkness, almost fluorescent. She understands why Marlene is scared of them. Of him. Tifa suppresses the urge to shiver.

Maybe, in another lifetime, one where she hadn’t grown up with this shy country boy, she might’ve found them pretty. 

Maybe, if she hadn’t seen the innocence shining in blue, blue eyes when he spoke of his dreams. 

_I’m gonna be a SOLDIER. The best of the best._

They’d been so bright she could have mapped the stars out in them.

She’d asked him if it was difficult to become a SOLDIER. He told her it was, and that he wouldn’t be back for a long time. 

It was a hard thing to explain, having a sudden interest in the paper at thirteen. Her father had caught her sneaking glimpses at the breakfast table, but chalked it up to curiosity, much to her relief. There wasn’t much reason to arouse suspicion other than Tifa’s guilty conscience; as far as he was concerned, she and Cloud hadn’t spoken since they were eight.

Her nails dig into her palms. Not that it mattered now.

She learned a lot about the war, but nothing about the man walking beside her. It was like he appeared out of the ether, like a dream.

Sometimes she doesn’t believe it herself, that one day she’ll wake up and find he was never here at all. 

She looks down at their hands. They sway side by side, almost close enough to brush. She steps a fraction closer. 

_Just a touch. Just to make sure he’s real_ —

“Heard some guys visited the bar today.” 

Tifa nearly jumps out of her skin. Her face heats instantly, and she whips her head away before he can ask. Can SOLDIERS read minds?

“Y-yeah. What about it?” she stammers.

“Heard they started a fight.” Succinct as ever, but it surprises her enough to form a coherent reply.

“News travels fast.” She exhales. “They gave me a bit of trouble—nothing I couldn’t handle!” she hastily reassures when she sees him tense. “I don’t think they were from around here.”

“Mm.” He looks pensive; about what, she isn’t sure.

A presumptuous thought darts through her, one she’s hesitant to ask. “Is that...why you were outside earlier?”

He turns away. “I just happened to pass by after a job, that’s all.” He kicks at a stray pebble on the ground.

He’s a bad liar. Too honest for his own good. 

She likes that about him.

“And what did ‘Mr. Merc’ do today?”

The nickname catches him off guard. “Took out a few monsters, nothing special. Easy work for a SOLDIER.” The corners of his lips turn up, just barely, but it’s too dark for her to see.

“I’m sure it was.” She wants to tease him for his slip-up, a mistake he‘s usually so indignant about others making, but she thinks back to him holding his head, telling everyone it's fine, he’s fine, and she keeps her mouth shut.

The silence lapses between them again.

His next words start, then stop. “Earlier—I mean—at the bar.” 

She waits for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, she glances over and sees him fiddling with his glove absentmindedly. 

Cloud’s never been one to fiddle.

“You mean the bet?”

He shifts. “Yeah.”

Again, she waits.

She can see the silence discomforts him, and his next words are quiet. “Well, what do _you_ think?”

The question catches her off guard. To be truthful, she hadn’t given Jessie’s words much weight. He was the last person she thought would take it seriously. Did he _want_ to fight against her? As far as his abilities were concerned, she finds it hard to believe his strength is what comes into question; he’d proven himself more than capable during the last mission. She wonders if she’d even stand a chance with his mako enhancements.

As a fighter, she could understand the thrill that comes with a spar, no doubt. Her fingers itch, instinct reacting before thought. It’s been a long while since she’s fought against a willing opponent. Between half drunk men and monsters in the scrap, she isn’t spoiled for choice. At the very least, it might be a good chance to hone her skills while keeping an eye on him. 

It’s also the first time Cloud has expressed any kind of interest in wanting to do _anything_ other than work.

“I think it could be fun!” She grins at him. “Plus, I’d _really_ like to make Wedge eat his words.”

There’s a long pause. It was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Did she offend him?

“I...I don’t want to hurt you.” 

His eyes are bluer than she’s ever seen them, and her heart nearly stops beating.

Tifa says nothing. She’s vaguely aware she’s staring too long and her eyes are too wide and that she should say something, anything, but her mind is preoccupied playing catch-up with that last sentence. 

“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.” He rubs the back of his head brusquely, turning to walk away.

For a brief moment, the image of a fourteen-year-old boy overlaps with the one standing in front of her.

Her arms drop to her sides, and a wave of something she can’t quite place—a mix of fatigue and relief and happiness all at once—washes over her. 

“I’m a lot tougher than I look, you know.” 

He stiffens. “I didn’t mean—” his voice is cut off by a strangled noise that sounds something like pain. 

_No._

His hands come up to his head, clutching at it like she had seen him do twice before. Did she say something wrong? She’d tried so hard not to hit a nerve, and yet—

She walks up to him slowly, carefully, as if she was trying not to startle a small animal. “Hey.” She softens the edges of her voice. “You okay?” Without thinking, her hand comes up and brushes his arm lightly.

He flinches at her touch, and Tifa yanks her arm back like he’s burned her. 

“I’m fine. Let’s do it.” 

He turns to face her. There are some places the moonlight doesn’t reach.

His eyes are green again.

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again.

“Tomorrow?”

It’s not what she wants to ask.

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

Tifa always shows up early, too early, so she busies herself with stretches, even though she’s plenty warmed up from her shift at Seventh Heaven. Jessie gives her an enigmatic wink on the way out.

“Kick his ass today for me, will ya?” She huffs. “He owes me, turning me down so coldly not once, but twice. Not just _any_ man gets invited to the Raspberry residence!”

Tifa gives her a wry smile. “I’ll try my best.” Cloud wasn’t used to the kind of overt flirtation Jessie had been showering on him since he arrived, and the poor boy didn’t have the first clue of how to handle it.

The scrapyard is empty—Cloud gets enough odd jobs from the watch that she doesn’t have to worry about fighting anything off before he shows up anymore. She’s offered to help on more than one occasion, but he reassures her he can handle it alone, now that he knows how to get there.

_Alone._

He’s been getting more and more work lately. Their practices have stretched later as the weeks went by, so it’s rare now, for her to see him during sensible hours of the day. 

She’s happy for him. It’s another reason for him to stick around, arguably the most important one. But she’s lying to herself if she said she doesn’t miss spending time together.

Evidently she’s not the only one with a hard time finding him; it seems everyone in town had a job for him to do, and the requests got filtered through her by proxy. Even on her way here...

”Hey Tifa, where’s your merc at?” 

“Tifa, that SOLDIER boy of yours around?” 

“Oy, I got a job request for your friend, Tifa!”

 _Hell if I know!_ Is what she really wants to tell them. But she smiles mildly, puts her own feelings aside and politely tells them she hasn’t seen him, but she’ll pass on their message. To say it annoyed her was putting it lightly.

He occupies too much space in her mind. She kicks the dirt, feeling sorry for herself as she watches the dust dirty her legs, her stockings, her shoes. 

It’s childish to sulk like this; it’s crossing boundaries, it’s asking too much, but all these thoughts can’t rationalize the envy that twists in her when she thinks of him leaving the slums—of leaving _her—_ for greener pastures.

The dust is thick enough to taste. She coughs, breathing it in by accident, and it sticks unpleasantly in her lungs. Now more than ever, she longs for the clean, sharp smell of mountain air.

Tifa sighs. She remembers when she used to like summer. Before she came to Midgar, it was her favourite season. 

Shielding her face with her hand, her eyes sweep across the scrapyard. Even in the late afternoon the horizon ripples in the distance. There isn’t an audience this time, and she’s grateful for it. 

There's a sinking feeling that maybe he’s too busy with work to make time, and she’d be left here waiting, waiting, waiting.

Waiting has become something Tifa has gotten very good at.

Maybe she should just go home. It had become their routine, but she doubts anyone would be crazy enough to be out in this weather other than her—

The crunch of gravel cuts off her thoughts. Her heart jumps in her throat. She knows who it is without turning around.

“Hey.”

She braces herself to scold him, for making her wait, to tell him that she isn’t his messenger chocobo. 

A shadow falls on her, and she looks up, squinting. The sun feathering on the tips of his hair looks like gold.

She wants to touch it. 

She forgets what she was going to say.

“Hi.” 

He taps the hilt of his sword twice. “You ready?”

There’s a flutter in her stomach, but she chalks it up to anticipation. “To win? Absolutely.”

He snickers, almost a laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

* * *

Tifa thinks back to the friends she had growing up. They were mostly boys—loud, reckless, brash. ‘War wounds’, they proudly called their scratched hands and bruised knees.

Nibelheim was small, and voices carried; more often than not she could hear words ringing reproach from mothers when they came home sporting their various injuries. _“Reckless children”_ , they had said, voices tinged with a wistfulness of days long past, remembering a time when they too felt invincible. 

Tifa wonders if she ever felt invincible. She thinks fighting comes somewhat close.

“Should we call it?” Cloud’s voice interrupts her thoughts. 

“No,” she rasps, her voice rough and ragged.

They’re both gasping for air at this point, drenched in sweat. The afternoon sun had finally set, but the heat was still baked into the ground.

“Come on Tifa, It’s been an hour. it’s too damn hot for this.”

“Are you forfeiting? Because I’ll take that as a win.”

He stiffens at that, and a wicked thought wonders just how competitive she can get him.

“Ah, you’re right,” she goads. “You’re probably too hot in that shirt, let's just call it off.”

He frowns, and she counts it as a small victory. “No, we should finish. Like you want.”

Her head swims. He has no idea what she _really_ wants. 

“Fine by me.” She pulls up her stockings a little higher—and she swears his eyes flick down. “I could do this all day.”

A few weeks ago, Tifa wouldn’t have believed that she would be able to talk with him this casually. Time has a funny way of doing that, of growing and easing the distance between people.

“Better keep those gloves up then.”

Her mouth goes dry, and it’s not because of the dust this time.

Had he just... _flirted_ with her?

“Sure thing, _Coach_.”

Before she has time to overthink it, she throws a wink his way—and he just stands there, as dumbfounded as he’d left her moments ago. 

Interesting. So she _does_ have an effect on him.

A heady mixture of adrenaline and euphoria surges through her, and she's by him in an instant, compressing weeks worth of tension—of sidelong glances, grazing skin and unsaid words—into one big slam of her body, bracing herself for resistance.

But there is none, and she’s falling.

Falling? She never falls. It’s funny, she thinks, though it shouldn’t be.

Her fingers catch blindly onto something soft and ribbed and warm, the same warmth she felt earlier when her hand was pressed into his back. She curls them around it and yanks hard, hoping either it will keep her upright or at the very least will put him on her level.

She hears more than sees the dull metallic clang of falling to the ground, at first thinking it’s his pauldron until she feels it sharply press against her own shoulder as he tumbles down with her into the dirt.

So if it wasn’t his pauldron, then—

Then maybe she has a chance after all.

They trip over each other, a tangle of warm sticky limbs, and it’s hard for her to get a proper grip. It doesn’t help that gravity is working against her.

There’s dust— _always damn dust_ —everywhere, and when it settles, she finds herself opposite the position she intended to be in.

She blinks, trying to clear her vision, and her peripherals make out what are his arms on either side of her. 

Somehow, he ended up on top of her. 

Nothing comes out of his mouth, but his eyes speak for him, twinkling with thinly veiled amusement.

“It’s not funny!” The words come out breathlessly, weaker than intended.

“Not even a little?” His tone is cocky, confident. It infuriates her. She doesn’t know if she wants to smack that look off his face or press her lips against it.

Maybe both.

Without pause, her hands come up and grip his arms. There’s no way she’s going down without a fight. She sees the mirth from his eyes falter, a second too late.

She musters what energy she has left and throws her body to the side, hooking her legs around his thighs. Now she’s the one looking down, his face incredulous beneath her.

Mirroring his countenance from moments ago, she smiles as she leans over him, decidedly triumphant. 

Molasses-dark hair spills over her shoulders—her hair tie must’ve slipped off when she fell—and the rest of Midgar fades away, the sounds of the city smoky and distant between the sweep of her hair. _It must look wild_ , a small voice chides internally, but she can’t bring herself to care.

“Is it funny now?” she teases, but the words die in her throat at his expression.

It’s hard to explain what happens to her just then. His eyes, usually so cool, flicker like blue flame. The fluttering in her stomach returns, and she feels like she’s being pulled in opposite directions. She wants to move closer. She wants to run away. 

She does neither. 

Heat rolls up all at once from her chest, her neck, her face. It’s a peculiar sensation, and she’s grateful for nightfall for two reasons now.

Has his gaze always been this intense? She’s having a hard time remembering. 

The mako lining his iris shines like jade. 

She’s having a hard time doing much of anything at all when he looks at her like that.

Their breath interlaces in the small space between them, teasing stray strands of hair, and she finally clues in to how _close_ they are. She doesn’t remember ever being this close with a boy. Especially not _this_ boy. It makes her shy, but following it is a lingering curiosity that warms her chest. The fire licks at her reserve, daring her to move closer.

There’s a steady thrum in her ears, invasive and distracting, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s her pulse. She wonders if he can hear it. _Probably._

She should get up. She should get off of him. 

But she doesn’t want to. 

And by the way he’s looking at her, he doesn’t want her to either. 

He shifts, and even with the thick fabric between them, she can feel his hip bones press into her thigh. She sucks in a breath, biting down hard on her lip before sound threatens to escape.

His eyes flick down to her lips and he swallows—hard. He opens his mouth like he means to apologize, but nothing comes out.

Belatedly, she realizes her hands are still gripped on his wrists and she loosens them quickly, pulling back. 

She sits up, and whatever indiscernible strain there is between them slackens. Her breath leaves her in a loud exhale and the blurry noise of the slum pulls at her ears, muffling the sound of her heartbeat. Tifa briefly wonders if she’d dreamt the whole thing. 

She’s not sure if she’s relieved or disappointed. She doesn’t know what that means.

Indolent, she rolls off of him and flat on her back. The high of endorphins wane and calm settles into her, and for a little while, the voice in her head is quiet.

She doesn’t know how long she lays there, but it feels like a while. Only their breath fills the silence, and it’s not until Tifa turns her head to look at Cloud, who won’t meet her gaze, that she knows what happened was, in fact, _not_ a heat stroke induced hallucination. 

Her fleeting respite vanishes and her mouth feels like she’s swallowed sand. Her cheeks flame so much they ache and she doesn’t have the courage to risk another glance back to see if he looks the same way. 

She presses her hands into the ground so they won’t come up and cover her face. There’s an ache in the right one, where she punched his sword, and she flexes it gingerly.

“...It hurt?” 

“N-not as much as my ego.” She winces.

The next thing that happens is unexpected.

He takes her hand, peeling her glove off with a tenderness she didn’t know he still had. The colour under her knuckles is faint, but there’s no doubt they’ll bloom into familiar purples and blues by tomorrow morning. 

His fingers trace over them. It feels nice.

It feels _really_ nice.

“Sorry,” he says, or she thinks he does. 

She makes a small noise, quiet enough that her acknowledgement could be passed off if he didn’t actually say anything at all. 

It’s quiet again, then: “You’ve been off your game.”

He’s more perceptive than she gives him credit for. Or maybe she’s easy to read.

“Ah, you noticed that?”

She expects him to blush, or at least turn away, but she finds him staring at her with the same expression he did the first night they walked home from the bar. It’s intense, pensive, and difficult to not get drawn into.

“You okay?” The words are soft, simple, brushing over her like a caress.

She wishes the answer is as simple. There’s too much to say, too much to ask, and it’s because it’s too much, _she_ might be too much; so she chooses not to say any of it.

“Yeah. Must be those late night shifts.”

He knows it’s a lie, but he doesn’t press her. He studies her face, like he might find an answer there, in the crease of her brow, the strain of her smile, if he looks long enough.

She turns to stare skyward.

The inky expanse of steel cloaks the undercity, darker than the actual night she can see peeking through the gaps between the plates.

“Hey, Cloud?”

“Hm?”

“Doesn’t this remind you of…?” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence.

“Yeah.”

“I...miss it.”

He turns to look at her. “Home?”

“The stars.”

His eyes follow hers, up to the plate.

“I miss it too.” The words come out like a held breath.

It’s something neither of them had the courage to say out loud before, and despite all she doesn’t understand about him yet, she’s glad this is one thing she does.

She looks around her. It’s no Nibelheim, and there are no stars, but as she looks into eyes that are not quite blue, but not quite green, she finds a warmth settling into her that she hasn’t felt for a very long time. It might not last, but right now, it’s enough.

She stands up, easing her sore muscles with a stretch. “It’s getting late.” She holds out her good hand to him. “Shall we?”

He puts his hand in hers.

Then he smiles, and this time it touches his eyes. 

  
  



End file.
